Oh it's Such a Shame
by aoxomoxoa
Summary: During the reign of Voldemort two damaged minds find their own unique solace in one another...though everything would be perfect if only she could get her lover's husband out of the picture...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**A/N: **Consider the following a spiritual successor to my other fic, "Stockholm".

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_That's the way things go._

_All people change as they grow._

_I hide in this room. _

_Let's hope it's not wasted._

_Oh it's such a shame._

_I look into your eyes_

_And try not to cry._

_This is all I know,_

_Let's hope it's not wasted._

_Oh it's such a shame._

_

* * *

_

Have you ever watched a metronome tick?

Seriously. Just sat and watched it's arm lull back and forth.

Left to right. Right to left. Left to right.

Tick tick tick.

I'm staring at the bars of this cell and my heart goes tick tick tick. Life moves by at a steady tempo, dribbling away like sand in an hourglass. One grain at a time.

Shame about that girl. Oh it's such a shame.

I have a face only a mother could love. If I still had a mother, she'd probably be a bit put off by my current appearance. She always said tattoos were for sailors and whores. Oh, its such a shame she would say. These damn shackles clash with my striped jumpsuit. My stomach is so distended, I look pregnant. Honestly, its not a good look for me. But you don't seem to mind.

If I still had a father, he'd probably hang his head in shame. Oh, it's such a shame. I'm not unlike those Kwashiorkor bellied African children in the Christmas catalogues; you know the ones where wealthy celebrities beg you for your money, when all the while you know they've got enough to feed an entire third world country for a day. But you still feel so guilty as you take that next bite of turkey dinner. I've forgotten what turkey tastes like. Father used to save me the dark meat.

Back to the metronome. When so much of your time is spent away from the civilized world, you only think in metaphors. A metronome. It's the metaphor that sums up how I feel at the moment. Day in day out, staring at the walls of my cell.

Tick tick tick.

That same rhythm. It's been nearly three years of days lulling in and out. Three years into the reign of Voldemort, now known as the Overlord.

He won. Putting the world on its collective knees bowing at his varicose feet. His first course of action as Overlord? Azkaban for Harry, Ron and I.

And it doesn't stop there. Another bullet point of the checklist for a successful dictatorship is keeping the masses in line. So what does the Dark Lord do?

Public execution.

Each year on the eve celebrating his great victory at Hogwarts, one of 'the light' is publicly put to death in a big celebration in London. Naturally the first Anniversary belonged to Harry, he was stoned to death. Ron was the second; death by hanging.

That was only yesterday.

I was given a front row seat to Ron's final chapter, and his epilogue. That is to say he appeared alive for several minutes after the floor panel gave out below his feet. Executions are the only times I feel actual sunlight on my skin. They even gave me a fancy new set of shackles for the occasion. Now I've got 364 more to go until it's my turn, not sure what I'll be given but it better be good. I'd like to go out with a bang. Firing squad, electrocution, burned alive...something to that effect. I'm tired of having played second fiddle to Ron and Harry for so long. I want nothing less than a spectacle. Harry's fear of death is why we lost the war.

To me, death is just a symptom of the venereal disease that is my life.

Not too many of my old friends are left. Much of the Order was obliterated during the battle of Hogwarts. Ginny killed herself when Harry was executed, throwing herself into the barrage of rocks and she was hit square in the temple by a large stone. Fenrir Greyback mauled Dean Thomas during a riot in Diagon Alley last summer. George insulted Yaxley during Harry's execution. Death by killing curse, he got off easy. Those who are still lucky to have their lives, I'm sure that they live in luxurious squalor. I've heard London's become a shithole.

Hold on to that thought for a minute, its dinnertime.

"Mudgirl, supper!" A prison guard tosses me a plate of shit with a side of more shit. Well, hash and bread, but after being here so long it all tastes like shit. In fact, shit itself might even taste better than this.

"Eat up Mudgirl, you're not looking too well."

Mudgirl. That's what they all like to call me in this wing. The supermax wing. I used to have a different name, but it holds no meaning to me now. I've got a couple other names too, some more colorful than others, but it's been forever since I was called by my old name.

Let me finish my shit, meal, I mean.

Yuck.

Brr. It's cold in here today; I rub my arms for some warmth. It's like rubbing paper against bone. Just a few more hours.

Did I mention I'm more than just a prisoner? This isn't really a cell they've got me in. It's a kennel.

I'm a pet. I'm your pet. You treat me real nice and keep me fed. You comb my hair, keep me clean, and sometimes you even let me sleep in your bed. Your name is Bellatrix Lestrange. I love you and you love me.

But people aren't supposed to know that you say.

Jump back to the first time I'm locked up here.

_This is horrendous, horrible, terrible, awful...oh god I'm not sure how I'm going to survive this. My friends are dead, the dark lord won, this is wrong, so so so wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. We hunted the horcruxes, found them all, and destroyed them, where did we go wrong? Oh god, oh god, now he's saying that they are going to put us in Azkaban. They're not going to kill us! It wasn't supposed to happen like this, Harry was supposed to win. Harry, Ron, someone please hold my hand...this is...oh god what's that? I hear laughter; terrible, maniacal laughter. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead as I recognize the source of the mirth amid a mouth full of disgusting teeth. It's you._

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgod it's really you. You're going to torture me again; you're going to try to break me. My arm still hasn't healed. You'll kill me this time I know it! I don't know where they're taking Ron and Harry; I may never see them again. What if I die here? What if you really kill me? Ohgodohgod._

_You reach out with a finger to trace my jawbone with one of your disgustingly long fingernails. "Oh dear little mud blood, oh what fun we're going to have you and I...girl to girl..."_

_"Don't you dare touch me!" I snap at you, but you only smile and reach for my hair, twirling a strand around your disgusting finger and bringing it to your nostrils. You inhale deeply and your eyes roll back for a brief second. Disgusting! How perverse! _

_Oh sweet Merlin you're pressing your body into me. Don't touch me please! You bring your lips to my ears and whisper "Crucio..." And its just pain. Everything goes white and all that there is is pure, unadulterated pain. "Oh my little muddy one, you have to learn to show your mistress respect. Otherwise, well, I suppose it goes without saying...crucio..."_

Jump back to the present.

They're opening my cell and one of the guards grabs my chains, dragging me out into the hallway.

"Time for today's orientation Mudgirl. Get a move on." One of the guards says with a smile and he pulls the chain harder and blood rushes to my head as his pulling depresses my carotid artery. My skull has gained ten pounds of pressure. No big. I stumble toward him. "There's a good girl."

I'm pretty popular in this wing. Each cell I pass contains one of my many fans; all eager to see me dragged out yet again. They hurl expletives, spit and other various fluids at me, all in the name of love of course. With Harry and Ron gone, who's left to shoulder the honor of handing the Overlord his victory? Me. That distinction is all mine.

As I speak they're bringing me to the interrogation room. New prisoner orientation. Standard for a weekday. Under the Muggle-born Registration Commission, Azkaban is nearly at capacity, though this is offset by the sheer magnitude of deaths occurring daily. Dementors are good for that.

Often they haul in suspected resistance members, the Overlord is so paranoid, and they'll bring me in as a demoralizer. Think you're so strong, so special? They'll joke in a derisive tone. Most people cower in fear, (that's the right thing to do) but some stand their ground and fight back. It's when they've got someone like that they bring me in. Look at your precious Hermione Granger, they'll say; we've had her for more than three years now.

That's my cue, and I feign weakness as they drag me across the floor. A punch here, a kick there usually does the trick, breaking everyone's spirits. They've since abandoned using the cruciatus curse; I've been tortured by it so much, I practically get off on the feeling now. Not quite the effect they want to go for.

But masochism is an asset in Azkaban.

Sometimes they'll haul in a person of interest, usually one of the friends of Harry, the boy who lived but is now dead. Then they bring in the Inquisitor. You stride in the room like you own the place, and you do what you do best; torture. I'll watch the macabre display from the corner, and I get jealous if the prisoner gets too much of your time. The word crucio when it slips from your lips is like music. I love it whenever you whisper it in my ears. My toes will curl like lace. Sometimes you'll look back at me over your shoulder, and I can only smile.

The guards are shouting at today's prisoner. "Think you're so great eh?" Oh shit I'm going to miss my cue. The guard chokes up on my chains. "We've got what's left of your precious golden trio here...been here for years now. Give up, resistance is futile!" I'm being dragged along the floor by the neck, and we stop in the shadows.

"'Zere 'eez no resistance! You must believe me!"

I've heard that French lilt somewhere before.

"Shut up. Comply and there will be no need to call in the Inquisitor." Pretty boy Draco Malfoy says in that obnoxious drawl of his. The Dark Lord wins and Draco is given the glamorous title of warden. Back when I was younger I'd say that Draco would totally end up in Azkaban, but this isn't quite what I meant by that at the time.

"I am speaking 'zee truth! 'Zese accusations against me are false!"

"You've been charged with conspiracy. Not a light sentence might I add? Just tell me what I want to know. Where is the resistance meeting?"

"No where! 'Zere 'eez nuzzing!" She's becoming frenzied; her blonde hair is flying in all directions. But I know her. I do. My skin scrapes on the concrete and I leave a bloody snail trail as the guard drags me in front of her. The spotlight is on me now and her pretty face goes wide as she recognizes me instantly. "'Ermione! You are alive!"

I'm suddenly taken back.

_"Eat 'Ermione. You must eat. Your strength 'eez nearly gone.". Fleur is sitting at the edge of my bed with a bowl of soup clutched in her hands. Her tender blue eyes are scanning my battered body. Gently she places my bowl of soup on the nightstand next to my head and she reaches for my right arm. It stings as she lifts it and begins to remove the bandage on it. "I just want to check 'eet ma puce. 'Old still for un moment."_

_My throat is hoarse, and I am cotton mouthed, that could only mean one thing. "I was up screaming again wasn't I?" Fleur could only give a small nod. It had only been four days since we escaped Malfoy Manor, and still I relive each minute vividly in my dreams at night. The ghostly twinge of the knife still lingers on the skin of my neck._

_"'Arry and Ron 'ave been worried about you. 'Arry 'eez eager to continue 'zee 'unt for 'zee 'orcruxes, but 'e cannot do 'eet wizout you."_

_I struggle to sit upright, and she helps to ease me up against the headboard. I reach for the soup and set the bowl gently on my lap. It's a simple broth with some chicken and vegetables, and with a shaking hand I bring the spoon to my lips. The meager nourishment is felt instantly as it fills my stomach. I shoot her a grateful look. "Thank you Fleur." _

_"'Eet 'eez no trouble...really. 'Zings are about to get very difficult for you non?"_

_I can only nod._

Fleur is screaming now, trying to get me out of my daydream. I shake my head and one of the guards gets me in the jaw with his fist. There are several more encores, including an appearance by a boot to the head. Warm blood dribbles down my forehead.

Unsettled by the sight of a fully-grown man beating an emaciated woman, Fleur is positively writhing against her bonds. "Stop, stop!" Fleur starts to sob, as if her boo-hooing is going to get her out of this.

"Mudgirl!" He snaps at me, and I struggle to look up through the film that's coated my eyes. "You know this woman?"

How should I know, I've been here three years, but she looks sort of familiar, I say. A mouthful of blood isn't the best for a reunion either, but I give her the best smile I can.

Fleur cries out once more. Crying even louder now and fat tears run down the slope of her perfect face and dribble from the tip of her perfect nose. I wish she'd shut up already.

At that moment snatchers drag in another body, and he too, looks familiar somehow. A tall lanky guy with beaver teeth. He's covered in a leopard print of bruises, complete with blood stripes.

"Hermione! Hermione!" The guy is yelling at me, and the snatcher holding him up punches him in the gut. He makes a hyruk sound like someone corked his throat.

"This is a wily one here. Caught the both of them conspiring in Diagon Alley. Puttin' up flyers with Mudgirl's face on it." He pulls one of the offending flyers from his trench coat pocket and passes it to Draco. In big bold letters it says BELIEVE. It's me, but younger me. Pre-Azkaban me. A naive me still clinging to a shred of hope that this all might've turned out differently. She's an idiot. And just who is this guy to put my face on everything?

What? Why? I cry out, and the bloodied guy looks at me like I have twenty heads. I don't want people seeing my face! My face is mine!

Draco shrugs. "Reckon they see her as a sort of symbol."

Fuck them if they're using me as a symbol without my permission.

"Hermione!" The guy is calling out to me again. "It's me!"

The snatcher yanks my chain (haha) hard, causing me to fall onto my knees. "How does this bloke know you Mudgirl?" I clamp my mouth shut. Fuck him for using my likeness on flyers. I sneer at him with my red teeth. Draco prepares to speak before someone enters...

"Dear Neville Longbottom." In you walk. Clip clop, clip clop, clip clop go your heels in a mesmerizing staccato rhythm. My breath catches and your eyes meet mine for the briefest of seconds before you fire the cruciatus curse at him. Screams ricochet against the dripping walls of this room as Neville (now I remember him) is twitching with his beaver teeth bared.

"Feels good doesn't it? Justice." You linger on the soft c of the word. "My, my, its been a while since I've seen you last!"

"Bellatrix." He says, his head and neck flaccid on his shoulders. Your name doesn't sound good when he says it. I watch you circle him predatory like from my darkened corner.

"Tsk tsk. Not exactly how I planned our reunion, Longbottom. You know why you're here don't you wastrel?" You say.

"I was unaware that I had broken any laws." He says.

"The Dark Lord frowns upon vandalism...shan't be sullying the landscape now should we?" Your plump mouth forms a pout and you tilt your head slightly to the left. It's adorable.

"Zut alors! What landscape!" Fleur shouts. "'Zee city 'eez 'een ruins. Garbage everywhere. People live in squalor! 'Zee Dark Lord cares not for 'is people!"

"You dare to speak to me when I don't remember asking your opinion! Crucio!" You scream and with a ridiculous flourish, strike Fleur with the curse. "You'll both tell me what it is that you're plotting...lest you'll end up like dear old mum and dad." You wink at him and Neville blanches with his Adams apple quivering in his throat. You start your inquisition.

Your toddler-like interrogation methods leave much to be desired. A toddler loses its favorite toy and the only way it knows to get the toy back is to throw a tantrum. Parents relent because they want the kid to shut the hell up. It learns how to get what it wants. There is a fundamental difference however. Whenever you, Bellatrix Black-Lestrange, throw a tantrum, people die.

Fleur and Neville play the parents for the next twenty minutes. Fleur passes out, and Neville stays tightlipped through the whole ordeal. To revisit the toddler metaphor, you've worn yourself out.

"Draco!" You snap and he runs to you with his tail between his legs.

"Y-yes Aunt Bellatrix?"

"Take these two to Cell block D. I grow weary of them." You stifle a yawn. "Perhaps I shall deal with them in the morning." You make to leave and as you enter my corner, a single fingertip gazes the edge of my chin. Then you're gone.

"You heard her!" Draco shouts at the guards. "Take the new prisoners to Cell Block D, and put the mud blood away."

TBC...

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**A/N 2**: Lyrics at the top from the song, "Oh it's Such a Shame" by the late, great Jay Reatard.


	2. Chapter 2

_got no car_

_got no money_

_I've got nothing, nothing, nothing, not at all._

_got no god_

_got no girlfriend_

_I know I don't need either one to be._

_No __Hope __Kids are bruised._

_got no time_

_got no money_

_I got nothing, nothing, nothing, not at all._

_got no friends _

_got no family_

_Just a bunch of people always running around me._

_No_

_Hope_

_Kids are bruised._

_

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_

I try to strike a conversation with the walls tonight, but they're not particularly talkative. And my idiot neighbor insists on having fits all night long, his screams hurtling themselves against my eardrums. My other floor mates call out to me, making it so so hard to sleep.

I am the calm center of the universe in the supermax wing of Azkaban. Years ago I used to cry myself to sleep in here every night.

I've got nothing left to cry about now. Life has left me desiccated. I look up through my sliver of a window and want to tell the stars that somehow I'm significant. Haven't had the courage to do it yet.

Though here in Azkaban I'm a celebrity.

While we're here running out the clock the guards will let us out to yard for one precious hour a day. And every day prisoners from all walks of life approach me with their grand ideas of escaping. Like they're asking my approval. I could write a book on the subject, I've heard nearly everything.

-Dig out the walls with spoons from dinner.

-Craft explosives with soot collected from the kitchen vents.

-Raise a cockroach army to over throw the prison guards.

Wouldn't it be nice to just use magic? Since we've all been disarmed, the Overlord reduced us to muggles. And we're too weak and malnourished to perform any kind of nonverbal magic. I've been without a wand for three years now; you snapped it in half the day I was captured. You called it an act of love.

Nobody knows that Azkaban has a prison yard, well, unless of course they've actually been in Azkaban. No one expects it to since Azkaban sits to the left of bumfuck in the belly of the North Sea. Set smack in the center of the prison; a balding scalp of earth serves as our brief daily vacation.

For one hour.

The yard also serves as our little center of commerce. Trades for food, tattoos, information, even lives. Here in the supermax wing, we aren't allowed visitors, but those who are allowed visits will have often have things smuggled in for them. At the yard you're given your one chance per day to get some extra sustenance. Then it's back to the cell for another 23 hours of self-reflection.

The first year that Harry, Ron and I were imprisoned, out in the yard the prisoners all called us 'The No Hope Kids'.

Forget "The Golden Trio". We were already brass.

Our fellow inmates unloaded their_ love_ for us with their fists and other various objects in the yard. Harry would be reduced to pulp almost daily, and Ron, he was a bit of a scrapper, but after awhile, he'd all but given up after having each of his arms broken twice.

As for me, I had a badge of honor sitting right on the skin of my forearm. And it's become my name here in Azkaban.

_mudblood_

To my fellow inmates (and even the guards) it means I survived an encounter with you. That's what that scar means. I've since earned a few more from you too, but none are as important.

They'll never understand how much this scar means to me. I am yours.

My tattoos followed. In Azkaban tattoos are earned by stealing, fighting, and killing. They especially encourage the last activity, gives the guards some entertainment, pitting us in fights against each other for better food or even showers. Prisoners are more than happy to oblige since death is more preferable to living here. Before Harry's execution, I had one tattoo; my prison ID number, tattooed into the side of my neck.

Now I've got a baker's dozen. Including the hallows, the size of a sickle, inked directly under the corner of my left eye.

From what I can remember of the time before the Overlord, I was consistently called 'the brightest witch of my year'. Dreamed that I'd become a healer, or a champion of magical creatures. Some farcical notion that serves little purpose to me now. Always my biggest fear was earning poor marks. I was always scolding Ron or Harry for breaking the school rules. After graduation I was fully prepared to marry Ron (I did love him once), be a doting Aunt to Harry's children, be the cookie cutter Gryffindor I was expected to be.

However, Hogwarts doesn't prepare you for Azkaban.

In Hogwarts you were always special; no matter who your family was, what your past was like, someone, somewhere believed in you. In Azkaban you are considered a living, breathing piece of shit; especially in the age of the Overlord.

In the yard I get blamed for everyone here being locked up; most prisoners are incarcerated for being half-bloods and mudbloods. Why this is my problem, I'll never know. I didn't fuck their mothers. Blaming me for their existence? Everyone is searching for his or her own scapegoat, I'm more than happy to oblige the rumor mill, but after a few…incidents…people know better than to say it to my face. For those people there are a few commemorative tattoos on my legs and arms.

At least I _earned_ my way here; conspiracy, treason and attempted murder of the Overlord himself.

Dementors observe our every move, filling us all with a sense of nothingness. There are jinxes in place everywhere preventing us from doing anything remotely magical. Unless you consider the metaphorical sense of the word magic, in that I _magically _survived a scrape over half a pint of butter beer in the yard with a man three times my size. Stabbed him in the neck with the sharpened plastic knife I had saved from supper the night before. They stopped bringing me knives at dinner after that. I've got an Ace of Spades tattooed on my neck for that one.

Wait.

I hear the high-pitched whine of the entry doors to our cellblock. Someone's coming in.

Must be someone important, none of my neighbors are shouting. A silhouette appears at my cell door, and I can't help but grin like a fool. All I can smell is pure arousal. The cell door starts to slide open.

It's you. Dressed in a whisper of a nightgown, you approach me, pressing your body against me. Your naked thigh pushes up between my legs, and your mouth latches onto mine.

We pull apart and you run your tongue along the top of your bottom lip. "I need you to finish me."

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A/N: Lyrics from "No Hope Kids" by Wavves.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I don't condone erotic asphyxiation.

**WARNING: **the following might be a little...unsettling. But, if you're reading Bellamione…well then this warning really serves no purpose now does it?

* * *

_Push me._

_And then just touch me._

'_Til I can get my,_

_Satisfaction._

I wish you were my boyfriend.

We've apparated back to your little slice of paradise on the far side of Azkaban. You're so crazy; you missed your time in here so much you decided to live here.

In an enormous suite on the very spot where your old cell used to be.

There's no place like home. The rooms all have your unique decorative flair; the burgundy leather whips help to offset the gunmetal grey of chains and pokers and you even accented your favorite branding iron with a lovely bouquet of lilies.

I can hear snoring.

It's _him_.

We pass by your bedroom door and in the dim light I can see your husband passed out and pitching a tent under the bed sheets.

You in your nightgown, his sleeping, it's an equation I compute all the time.

Why you still stay married to him I'll never quite understand.

Torture worse than any dismemberment or cruciatus was whenever you'd chain me to the desk in your bedroom. From there I'd be forced to watch him struggle to pleasure you, and vice versa. All the while I struggle to keep vomit from getting on your floor.

You tug me along by my manacles, and I can't help but wonder if the chain between the handcuffs is long enough to fit around Rodolphus Lestrange's throat. It's good enough to choke him, maybe.

If it were longer, I'd strangle him 'til that tent collapses. That's a valuable lesson to learn here in Azkaban. Choking buys you time, but strangulation is a more permanent solution to any problem. He's a big man. He's gotten quite fat since the Overlord took over. Wait, that's an understatement, he's _obese_. The Death Eaters are like royalty now, and he decided to eat like royalty.

Sleeping on top of that bed he looks like a beached whale on a coroners table. His apnea-ridden breaths gurgle through his open mouth with each rise and fall of his chest. Each smelly breath a puff of pollution. Smog.

I hate it that he touches you.

"Let me clean you up pet." You coo, and with a few flourishes of your wand I could actually eat off of my hands without fear of disease.

You lift my arms up over your head, fitting your body snuggly between my elbows. My manacled hands are resting between your shoulder blades. You breathe against my temple, while you press your barely clothed breasts against me. "Oh my muddy puppy, how I've missed you."

Tonight will be good; you only call me that when you're undersexed.

You suckle on the Ace of Spades, before you smash your pillow lips against mine, and we stumble across the carpet of your living room like lovesick teenagers. The kiss is desperate. I fall to the ground on my back yanking you down with me. Lusty eyes glare at me through a jungle of curls; you squirm and begin to rub yourself against my leg. Sans underwear. Your arousal soaks through the fabric of my jumpsuit with each thrust.

Tribadism is what it's called, and it's one of your favorite pastimes, among other interesting hobbies you possess. I think of it as you're marking your territory. You bite your lower lip to stifle a moan.

Things didn't start this way between us; no relationship ever does.

_"Wakey wakey little mudblood..."_

_I lift my head off of the moth eaten pillow at the singsong voice. Instantly my gut plummets inside me at the sight of the source of my wakeup call. The moonlight still streams through my cell window. Merlin knows what time it is. But what are you doing here now! I'd only just finished crying myself to sleep over our last session. And I can only sleep on my stomach tonight, my whip wounds have yet to heal. My legs are still so sore since you decided to stab me with a fork you were eating dinner with. You draw nearer and like a wolf, the whites of your eyes reflect back in the moonlight. I'm starting to shake._

_"Wha-what do you want? Haven't you hurt me enough!" I can only stammer, I'm shaking so much. _

_"Still your tongue filthy creature!" You snap at me. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. You step closer. Stay back, stay back please stay back. Now you're pulling out your wand, Merlin save me. Harry? Ron? Anyone? Please!_

_I'm completely paralyzed with fear as you lean in and sniff my hair. _

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgod... I feel something warm and wet on my ear. It's your tongue. "You're lucky the Dark Lord wants to keep you alive." You whisper. "If it were up to me, I'd have put you in a coffin." Then there's a pinch on my earlobe. Your teeth. "Though...I do find you delectable in those rags, you dirty mongrel. Under all that filth is something I want, and I always get what I'm after." Your wand caresses my jawbones and with your free hand you force me to look in your eyes. They look rapacious. You're bringing my forearm scar to your lips and you sniff it before running your disgusting tongue up the length of the word mudblood. The saliva trail left behind feels like its turning to ice in this cold air. Goosebumps are starting to form on my skin. _

"_You're going to torture me again!" I cry out. _

_You laugh. "You call it torture…I call it foreplay."_

_What're you doing now...oh god. You push me over so hard onto my back, my wounds that were just beginning to heal are ripping open. I'm screaming in pain. You can only smile. You straddle me and bring both of your hands up to grip the collar of my jumpsuit. Oh no you're not planning to...RIP! I'm so cold..._

_"Oh how lovely...". The nail of your pointer finger grates down the skin of my chest, down to my navel and ventures further down than I'm comfortable with. No one has ever touched me or seen me naked before. I was hoping to make Ron my first, and now this monster is about to have its way with me. Your mouth is hovering dangerously close to my left breast. I'm hyperventilating. You notice. "Remember our fist little run in mudblood? Back in my sisters manor? When you so foolishly tried to lie to me about breaking into my vault?" Your tone is teasing, and here come my tears. "You were lucky that my dear sister was around, the things I wanted to do to you then." What's that! Your fingers are down...oh god. Why are you doing this! Haven't you humiliated me enough?_

_"Do you like this muddy one? You're so damp already...you must want this." I feel disgusting. I feel so dirty. Merlin, Jesus, Mary, Joseph...get me through this. Wow, I find faith at the most inopportune times. I feel so, so, so dirty._

_Teeth like daggers bite down on my nipple so hard it draws blood. It hurts so badly. You look up at me and smile; your nasty teeth are stained a hideous shade of red. Your tongue darts out to lap up the bleeding._

_"Why are you doing this! Filling your mouth with my dirty blood! You don't know were I've been!"_

_You sit up and smack me hard across the mouth. The force of the blow splits my lip. "Bold words filthy one. But know this, I do so love to get...dirty. Can't fault me for wanting to take a romp in the mud." You force your own mouth hard against mine, I can taste my own blood in your mouth as your tongue rams inside. Down below your fingers are playing with my folds, the edge of your nail grazes my...umm...clit and I can't stop my hips from bucking up against you. Now I feel even worse. We're both women. You've got to be at least 20 years older than me. Oh, this is so wrong on so many levels. I have to stop this. I know._

_I bite down hard on your tongue; so hard I can feel my incisor go right through the meat of it. You're trying to pull away but I don't let up just yet. I want you to feel pain. You tug and tug your face from mine; you can't quite reach your wand that's fallen to the floor. I get you in the jaw with an uppercut from my left fist. You whip backwards, a piece of you inside my mouth. This is so gross._

_"FUCK!" Blood is positively pouring from your mouth._

_I make a run for the open cell door and spill out into the hallway, my bare feet slipping on some unknown liquid. I make it to the heavy doors of the utility stairwell just as I hear your screams get louder. Don't look back, don't look back, don't fucking look back! Keep running! _

_I'm down three flights before I can hear voices in the distance. Someone must be coming up the stairs! Shit!_

_My kingdom for a wand! I try to force open one of the ward doors, but it won't budge. It's magically sealed shut. The voices are growing louder. There's several of them._

_Shitshitshitshit! There are footsteps stomping up the stairs and this damn door won't budge. Definitely sounds like more than one set of feet. You'll have probably made it to the stairwell by the time I go back up, and who knows what's down below...oh Merlin..._

_"Oy mates, look what we've got here...It's the mudblood...must've gotten out of her cage." A man's voice directly behind me, and his breath is so hot and humid. It's Fenrir, I can smell him. His big hands grab on to my shoulders and he spins me around to face him. My arms fly up to cover myself and it's too late, he's already trying to pry my arms apart. "Kinky little thing, all ready to go." He's grabbing my head with his nasty sweaty hands. His companions push their way around us and I can feel their eyes on my body. Oh god now my body is up against the wall, and he's pulling what's left of my jumpsuit off. The tears are burning my eyes as he removes my last barrier. His touch is rough, its awful, it's predatory, his hand is pressed against my torso traveling lower...now I can hear a belt buckle coming undone behind me...please just let me die right now...please. _

_"STUPEFY!". He's knocked away by a powerful explosion, and he starts tumbling down the stairs. I look up to see you running toward me with your wand drawn. Your entire chin is stained red._

_"You stay away from her cur!" You shriek and fire another bolt at Fenrir. I'm cowering in a ball on the floor and you stand over me. I crawl toward you and wrap my arms around your calf, and I cling to you._

_"Mrs. Lestrange! We found her out here on the stairwells escaping, we were trying to bring her back to her cell."_

_"LIAR! How, pray tell, does escorting a prisoner require her to be naked and you to have your trousers around your ankles, sporting an erection!" Your hand grabs on to a lock of my hair and you tug it hard. "The mudblood is mine. If anyone touches her, so help me you'll be begging for death when I'm through with you." The men all stiffen and Fenrir adjusts his pants. "Return to your patrols all of you." _

_I want to thank you but the words won't come because you've yanked me by my hair to my feet. "Don't think that I'm through with you yet mudbloood." You pull my face impossibly close to yours. "You're coming with me to my bedroom…" Your lips are curling to form a bloody demonic smile. "And I want you…to bite me again."_

And so began our little love connection.

The first time we had sex, it was…rough. You broke both one of my legs, my clavicle, and two of your fingers. You healed me, and after another long torture session, we lay in a tangle of naked limbs on your floor and you held me tender until I fell asleep. The crying at night stopped after that.

And oh the things you said to me that night.

No one has ever talked to me like that in my entire life.

Right now it's hard to talk to you with a mouthful of tongue. You're hungry tonight. My hands roam over the Braille of your chest as you shrug out of the nightgown you've been wearing. A spotlight of dusty moonlight lands right on your breasts. You're so aroused you could cut glass.

A constellation of freckles lies to the lower left of your navel on the universe of your body.

Trying to explain this, what we have, to Harry and Ron was like arguing ancient runes with a gold fish. Harry was disgusted (no one hates you more than he does), and Ron couldn't believe I just didn't kill you when I had the chance. They never understood. Boredom was killing us all slowly, and you keep the boredom away. Besides, you were my protector. You killed people for me. If that's not devotion…

Pulling out your wand you use it to cut my jumpsuit open, before handing it to me while making a circling motion.

You want to play your favorite game.

You roll onto your back, and your legs spread open like a book. I lean forward take that first taste; the best taste when you slightly jump at the contact. With a flick of your wand, ropes appear out of thin air to wrap around your neck, twisting tighter and tighter, like a leash.

Imagine my delight to learn you're a hypoxyphiliac.

When the brain is deprived of oxygen, an accumulation of carbon dioxide occurs, it is then that one can achieve a state of hypoxia. One will become giddy and lightheaded. Adding an orgasm to that, you said, is like going to a higher state of being, if just a for a few seconds. A rush that you crave like a drug. This is how I know you love me.

For those minutes I bring you to climax, I literally hold your life in my hands.

It's your secret.

Your fetish.

It's the irony of ironies. You _love_ to be tortured. You've let me hit you, bite you, tie you up, whip you, brand you, stab you, choke you. It's your own dark, twisted fantasy, and you chose to share it with me. Rodolphus doesn't love you like I love you.

I'm face deep in you when I pull the end of the rope tighter, just in case you weren't certain of how much I love you. The pressure in your head is making your eyes look like ping pong balls. The skin of your face gets redder and redder with each struggling breath you fail take. To expedite the process I grab a fistful of your hair and yank it hard, forcing you to sit upright and depress the spongy arteries of your neck even more.

You come hard, your body twisting up against the ropes, all while laughing out like a delighted child.

We kiss, and all I can taste is you. "Oh my darling mudblood, no one understands me quite like you do." You reach out to touch me, trailing a line down my abdomen.

What're you trying to say, I ask, and watch as you coat my chest with your saliva, running your dagger tongue across my heart

"Rodolphus, he bores me. He is one and done. You…you're like forbidden fruit." You bite down hard on my right breast and start to suckle. I provide your nourishment.

I hate that the bastard is still alive, I say, cradling your head against me. Let me kill him for you I say into your hair. You don't need him.

Lifting your head up from my breast your lips curl into a devilish smile. "Do I sense a bit of jealousy?" You say with a smirk, and I can't help but pout. Sometimes it works with you.

"Aww my pet…he's no threat to you." Your fingers are leading an expedition across my stomach, and I suck in a deep breath through my teeth when you spread me open. An inquisitive set of fingers pops in to say hello while you bring your mouth to mine. The tip of your tongue dances across the top of my incisors; that's my cue to bite down on it. You shudder and moan and whimper.

You're so strange it's beautiful.

You suck on my lower lip. "Wasn't it nice seeing your old friends today?" You ask while pumping your fingers in and out of me. In and out. In and out.

I have no friends, I say between grunts. My hips are rising slowly, my body pulling you into me deeper.

"Longbottom looks so much like his dear old dad. Pity the apple didn't fall too far from the tree." Your nails graze my insides. "Oh and the French one…she's got some fight in her…shame that she chose to align herself with the wrong people. Too many _boys_ on this side."

And what about me I say.

"You…are my dirty little secret." With your hand still inside me you lean up to kiss me. I'm nearly there. It's ferocious, how you kiss, I can barely breathe. I've never kissed anyone like you. Boys. Men. Then there's you.

You poisoned my sexuality I say. My climax hits like a fist to the face.

"Au contraire," You purr. "It's _you _who poisoned _me_."

* * *

**A/N:** Lyrics from Benny Benassi's "Satisfaction"


	4. Chapter 4

_The warmth it came, in waves of pain._

_We really had ourselves a time._

_Yeah, we had ourselves a time._

I choke my name out of your lungs several more times that night. Laid claim to each curve and valley of your body, digging trenches with my nails and plundering the treasures within you. Slick with sweat and blood, you moved within me. For a few hours on the floor of your living room we're like animals screwing to save our species.

A human knot is what remains once we're spent. You rest your head on my chest and trace geometric figures on my stomach. Kisses peppered here and there amongst gentle caresses.

"I'll sleep well tonight pet…" You whisper into my hair and you extract yourself from my arms, making your way to your kitchen. "Come muddy one, you must be hungry." Obediently I follow, stumbling toward you with my now rickety legs.

Bit by bit you lovingly feed me scraps saved from your dinner; putting each morsel into my mouth with your fingers.

Sharing your remnants from night out on the town with your fellow pureblood aristocracy. Foie Gras, bits of pickled pear, shallots, wild rice, a half eaten roll, a few dregs of wine. You even saved me a strawberry, something I've forgotten the taste of.

My taste buds have all but burned away during my time here.

The acidity of berry's juice mixed with the lingering after taste of you is like sweet ambrosia. A divine exhalation of the very earth. Already I feel invigorated, ready and willing to be lost in you once more. Your mouth moves over mine once more, pushing your moans down my throat.

"I shudder to think of what I'd do without you…muddy puppy." You breathe into me, and I quickly dip a finger into you and draw it out, bringing the slick digit to your lips.

But your tongue never makes contact. In the distance Rodolphus is beginning to stir, and your pointer finger comes to rest with light pressure against my lips.

Bedsprings are moaning, and the floorboards buckle under his girth as he's likely rocking his corpulence back and forth in order gain enough momentum to stand.

For where I'm sitting with your silencing finger on my lips, I can see a large meat cleaver stuck in a chopping block up on your kitchen counter. I can see your reflection in the thick blade, and in each of the rivets beset in the black handle.

"Bellatrix, where are you?" He's croaking like a half dead Bullfrog, and already the sound has me stomaching the urge to slit his throat. The cleaver is so close. My grandfather was a butcher. Just a few swift blows, I say to you, I can have him quartered. You balk at my sudden tension, and admonish me with a swift shake of your head.

A flick here, a quarter-swish there, a slight left-handed twist of the wrist and your canvas is suddenly wiped clean of our art. Blood splatters still cover my naked skin though and you rise to your feet and drag me by the manacles toward an armoire against the far wall of the living room. Hooking the chain to its handles, you leave me shackled to your wardrobe.

The floor is screaming under each elephant step Rodolphus takes and you quickly don your nightgown. You lean forward and cup my bruised cheek with your hand and fill my mouth with your tongue one more time. Pulling away you give me an apologetic look before aiming your wand at me with a sad look.

I know. This will hurt you more than it does me.

Enter Rodolphus stage left. The spotlight is now on you. Time for you to deliver your heartfelt soliloquy. "CRUCIO!"

I bend impossibly forward, like a dead branch someone is attempting to fracture with their foot. Pain flows through me and my veins fill with battery acid. The taste of metal fills my mouth and I can't help but scream.

Rodolphus rolls his eyes as he lumbers toward you, then he looks at me, naked and chained in the throes of a seizure. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Dragging the ruddy mudblood in here…are we feeling bored again Bella?" He says in a disgustingly flirtatious tone.

The pain isn't stopping, and I want to tell you that I'm almost there. But his balloon hands are now pawing at you, one creeping down inside your nightgown, the other climbing upwards to fondle you. You squirm but don't break your concentration, the beam from your wand writhing around inside of me. Chewing on neurons and axons. Muscle and bone.

Sausage fingers are starting to play with you, but you are still steady staring directly into my eyes. Why are you doing this to me? I scream through my impending climax.

Rodolphus, the fat bastard, snorts. "Haven't we gone through this enough, little slut? My delicate flower here gets her jollies on torturing you!" He laughs like a pig at a trough.

Perfect. He hasn't a clue. You, on the other hand, your face is contorting with confusion, and anger. I know I'm getting through your defenses. Just get me the cleaver. Come on, please. Let me wrap my manacles around his neck. Before you can respond he twists you around, stopping the curse and I'm left a marionette puppet at the end of the first act.

He swallows your face in a bloodhound kiss, slobbering on you. Your arms barely wrap around his neck as you inexplicably try to deepen the kiss. Just get me the cleaver.

"Ready for another go?" Rodolphus says.

Your head lolls to the side and you glance at me chained against the armoire. "Only if the mudblood can sit on our bed."

"Are you bloody insane? That filthy slut with her dirty blood?" SMACK! His cheek ripples like a pond in the aftermath of your open palm.

"Mongrel husband! How dare you question what I want?" You snap at him. "I have more than earned my favor in the eyes of the Dark Lord, you are but a surname. An _obligation_. If I want the mudblood present, then it shall be so."

"Why're you always carrying on about the brat? Bloody strange your fascination with her; keeping her chained up in our room like a dog should we ever chose to have a roll." I don't like the way his eyes feel when they're elevatoring up and down my body. "Shame about her blood, the body is quite nice. But filth is still filth. Why are you acting this way Bella?"

Your shoulders slacken and roll forward in defeat. "Fine. I shall return her to her cell." You cross the room toward me, grab my torn jump suit from the floor and wrap your eager fingers around my wrist. We're yanked by the navel and arrive in the supermax wing a breath later.

You kiss me good-bye at my cell's front door, (after knocking out everyone else on my immediate side of the wing). My jumpsuit slips from my grip to the floor. I don't want you to go just yet, I say and like a child I tug on your nightgown. Stay with me in here tonight I'm begging you, don't go back to that pig.

"Ah, ah, ah." You rap me on the tip of my nose. "You'll just have to be patient. For now my dear, fret not about Rodolphus, he isn't half the lover that you are. No one is. But for now muddy puppy, I will bid you good night." Without so much as another word, you turn on your heels and apparate away with a faint…_pop_.

I'm not enjoying this one bit; your husband is where I should be. I put my shredded jumpsuit back on. Now I'm stuck sleeping here alone. Again. Cold, hungry, and lonely.

Each time we're together the ending is the same. You always go back to him. Its what's expected of you. A pureblood marriage. Two respectable names, respectable blood tossed in a blender.

Perhaps an _heir_ on the side of caution to continue the Overlord's dreams of a pure society.

Too bad Roddy seems to be shooting blanks. I'd like to shoot him in the head.

I'd conquer you; make you mine.

I curl up on my cot, the cold air biting me in all directions. Sleep eludes me for another hour.

Creaking, by my cell door.

Are you back for more?

Wait a second, it isn't you. Someone's at the door. Now there are two others, what's the big idea? Who is-

"STUPEFY!"

* * *

I can't see through the film coating my eyes. I feel like I'm underwater, just below the surface. Muted colors that swirl and murmur. "She's waking up.". More blobs join with the swirls. I reach up to rub my eyes and I come to find that I somehow know these swirls.

"It's Hermione; she's finally waking up!" It's a quasi-familiar voice of an older man. "Come quick!". One by one an audience is building and I sit up in my bed. Bed?

Wait. This isn't my cell. It doesn't smell like my cell. Where the hell am I!

Oh I don't like this. Not one bit.

A blonde haired blob pokes it's head in from what looks like a doorframe. "Mon dieu! I will go get Molly and Neville!"

Molly? Neville?

Now a big red haired blob is barreling toward me. "Hermione!". God I wish they'd all stop shouting my name so much. I really hate feeling popular. Before my vision is completely restored I'm being sucked into a vortex of a hug; my face smashed against an enormous pair of floral print breasts. "It's been ages! Finally they got you out of that horrid prison dearie!" Tears are soaking the hairs of my head, and I feel like I'm on a trampoline with each heaving sob she takes. "It's a blessing that you are still alive!" I'm extracted from the woman's chest and now am face to face with Molly Weasley. I look around, I have no idea where I am.

She looks at me expecting me to get all soppy with her. Give me a moment, I need to orient myself.

"She 'eez likely confused Molly. 'Zee last 'zing she probably remembers 'eez being 'een 'er cell."

A fourth voice comes in now. "My Aunt was likely torturing her...again.". Now Draco is here too? "I waited for the psychopath to leave before we broke her out. Stunned her and apparated with her before returning for Fleur and Neville. Reckon they'll just be discovering that they've escaped any moment now."

"She's far enough away right now to be safe. There's much to be done, but for now, it'll likely be a bit of an…adjustment for our Hermione. You've done well Draco." Why is Draco working with Arthur Weasley? None of this is making sense, I must be dreaming. Yeah that's it.

Draco gives a nod. "I'll be getting back to Azkaban, hopefully before everything hits the fan." He apparates away with a crack.

Molly scrutinizes my face. I still haven't said anything. I'm not really certain what one should say at a reunion. Her plump hands angle my head this way and that. "Tattoos...scars...bruises…body entirely skin and bones...Merlin Hermione my dear I barely recognize you, the horrors you must've gone through in that dreadful place...". My stomach decides to growl. "Oh and so thin too! You must be starving my dear! I'll go whip a little something for you." She waddles out of the room.

Sitting around my bed are three people: Neville Longbottom, Fleur Delacour, and Arthur Weasley.

I'm not in Azkaban.

You're not around.

They must've taken me away from you.

Where am I? I ask. The words are groggy like my brain.

Arthur gives a smile. "Welcome to 'The Dead Dog' Hermione. Home of the resistance."

* * *

A/N: Lyrics at the beginning from "The Dead Dog" by Portugal the Man.


	5. ENTR'ACTE

_**Entr'acte**_

I'm having a very bad day. An extremely bad day.

There's been a breakout. And the Overlord is furious.

No one has escaped Azkaban since He took power. Not one. Security tighter than Minerva McGonagall's knickers. The Overlord is convinced that there's a resistance afoot, and after an…eventful meeting…he's given me the esteemed honor to stop it from happening...or face death. Sending me to do the dirty work.

A resistance? I honestly don't understand why he's so upset.

I'm thrilled! Who wouldn't want more war? More blood? More torture? More fighting?

But something precious has been snatched from between my fingers. Who would dare? **WHO?** My precious muddy one is gone. Her cell is empty. Chains idly swinging bereft of her creamy wrists. Her supple body nowhere to be seen. My own body…it aches deprived of her touch.

Two other prisoners are missing too. The French one and Longbottom.

**THEY TOOK HER.**

Filthy rats stole the mudblood.

**MY MUDBLOOD. **

They have more than earned their deaths. The brutes! What are they doing with her? Is she alright? No one steals from Bellatrix Lestrange and lives to speak of it.

Cousin Sirius once thought it'd be amusing to steal one of my favorite dolls when we were children. _Oh how fun it would be to mess with Bella! Let's watch her have a tantrum hee hee hee._

I broke two of his fingers with my bare hands.

Like a bloodhound I'm doggedly going to pursue my muddy one. Hunt down Longbottom and the French tart.

How did they get out of their cells! How did that bumbling fool Longbottom worm his way past my dementors?

Unless...

They have an accomplice…it _must_ have been an inside job! Someone here is doing this behind my back. Blackmail.

We might have a Snape in the grass...a traitor.

Someone here knows about me and the mudblood. They're going to hold it over my head.

If the Overlord were to find out...perish the thought. He _won't._

The Overlord is mistaken. There is no resistance, someone is trying to sabotage me. Trying to dethrone me here in Azkaban! Tarnish me in the eyes of the Overlord!

So foolish you are Bella! I should have locked up the mudblood in my quarters, in order to keep a closer eye on her.

I haven't felt a rage like this since my darling muddy one broke into my vault.

Wait…what if she wanted to leave me? Wanted to run away?

No. Never.

Never ever ever.

She would _never_ run away from me. She _loves_ me.

Longbottom, and the French one, they did this. When I find them, oh they'll suffer for incurring my wrath.

Longbottom I'll flay bit by bit with my knife, and when he's clinging to the last threads of life…I'll burn his body on a pike for everyone to see.

Perhaps I'll secretly hex the French one's food so that every morsel she eats will turn into a ravenous insect writhing in her gut. Then I'd place her in an iron maiden while she's foaming at the mouth choking on herself. Leave her to linger and bleed.

The accomplice…I'll place in strappado. Snap the arms at the shoulder and if they have the gall to scream, to ask me to stop…I'll slice out the tongue.

I shudder to think of what will happen if I don't get my mudblood back...it'll be the return of endless nights without sleep. I'll be at the mercy of my wretched husband.

The mudblood had me captivated after our first encounter in Cissy's mansion.

Her struggling, her screams, her hot tears. The Dark Lord wanted to slaughter her straightaway once the war was won. On hand and knee I begged him to spare the mudblood. He didn't know that I wanted to make her mine. A trophy. I'll be damned if someone one dares to take her from me.

In the meantime I fully plan on_ interrogating_ the entire staff of Azkaban. Lure out the vermin from their holes. The hallways will flood with the blood of anyone who lies to me. Heads will roll. I _will _get my mudblood back.

I'm having a bad day indeed.

For now there's work to do.


	6. Chapter 5

_If I seem lost_

_Well, I weighed the cost_

_And I chose my crime_

_Now it's mine._

…_all mine._

_

* * *

_

The Dead Dog?

With a nod Arthur gives one of those warm and fuzzy paternal smiles, haven't had one given to me in a while. "Yes, The Dead Dog, in divination, the dead dog symbolizes the loss of someone dear to you. And the Overlord has taken many of those whom we hold dear. On the outside it's just a pub, but within these walls is the last safe haven in Wizarding London. Far enough away from the eyes of the Overlord, people can be themselves, regardless of Blood status. Come let's get you a change of clothes and join Molly and the others downstairs; there's much to discuss, and no doubt you must be famished."

They take away my jumpsuit and give me some of Fleur's clothes to swim in. Incidentally everyone present seems to not recall that I don't have a wand at my disposal. They've got a muggle in their midst now. The jeans sag around my hips and drag on the floor. The neckline of her shirt shows off my ribs pretty well though. I think you'd like it.

I'm not too worried at the moment, you'll find me. You love me.

Arthur leads me down into this shanty dining room, where a bunch of familiar faces are sitting around a table. All of them are gaping at me with their stupid jaws hanging down.

"Granger's got tattoos!" Someone whispers as I round the table. I hate that. People talking about you as if you weren't standing right there.

Ever the gentleman Arthur pulls out a chair for me at the head of the table. His river delta laugh lines expand with a smile.

"We 'ad been planning to break you out for some time now 'Ermione." Fleur says fidgeting with a paper napkin, methodically reducing it to confetti.

Molly orbits around the massive kitchen table the resistance has decided to congregate around. Neville with his beaver teeth is sitting next to Arthur. Neville's eyes zero in on me as I'm descending these rickety steps. He springs up nearly knocking his chair to the ground in his elation of seeing me in my emaciated glory.

"H-H-Hermione, good to see that you're awake." He's stumbling toward a chair to pull it out. The chairs legs leave a ski trail of dust, and I just stand there watching the gentlemanly display. I'll admit, I'm not used to men being particularly nice to me as of late. Arthur reassures me that they won't bite. Well not in those terms exactly. I join them and let him push in my chair.

A hodgepodge of people I vaguely remember and frankly don't really care all that much for are seated around it. Arthur, Neville, Fleur, a few remaining Weasleys (Charlie and Bill) and Cormac McClaggin? Why the hell is he here?

He's smirking at me raising an eyebrow, muttering nonsense words about 'the good old days' at Hogwarts. No matter how much time goes by, some things don't change. Pig. He tells me that despite being in Azkaban so long, he still thinks I'm pretty. And Neville chokes on his drink.

I could tell Cormac to be quiet. You might hear and come to _rescue_ me.

Molly returns seconds later with a tray covered with a landscape of food. A mountain of mashed potatoes, mutton boulders, with a string bean valley sitting along the bank of a chicken soup lake. I've even got tools at my disposal; a fork, a spoon and a sharpened steak knife.

"Eat up dear, we've got much to do." Molly says.

They all watch me intensely, as if I'm an animal in the zoo at feeding time. The only time the depressed captives do anything worth watching in their enclosures is feeding time.

I tug the tray closer and reach for my fork stabbing it into a group of string beans. Not one word is said as I bring the rigid legumes to my mouth and chew them. It's like biting into pure butter, the sickly taste fills my mouth instantly.

Shit I think I want to throw up.

This wad of chewed beans doesn't seem to want to go down my throat. This food lacks your precision mastication that I'm so accustomed to.

"Molly dear, perhaps you've made it a bit too rich?" Arthur says.

My esophagus quivers a few more times before the buttery green mass finally slides into my throat. And so goes my first bite of real food in three years.

No shit. No leftovers. A real meal, and it leaves me feeling like I want to vomit. I push the plate away, but not too far. Just need a few minutes to recoup.

Cormac reaches toward my plate with a fork while commenting on me. "Never took you for the type of girl wanting tattoos Hermione. How're you able to get 'em in prison?" He extracts a piece of mutton.

Fuck him.

Grabbing the steak knife I stab it hard though his sleeve, pinning his arm down on the wooden table. The glob of meat flops onto the table with a splat. He gapes back at me in shock and I slide my plate closer. He should know better. I shovel some potatoes in my mouth. Cormac struggles to pull his arm off of the table before settling on ripping his sleeve free from the blade.

The steak knife is still vibrating in the fibers of the table. I brandish it in order to eat a bit of mutton, and as the blade slices through the flesh I'm taken back.

_The knife blade dances across my torso as you suckle on my neck some more. Your fingers twirl the knife's hilt, leaving a tiny nick next to my bellybutton._

"_A knife can penetrate deeper than any bullet or spell…" You coo in my ear. "It never jams…no misfires…no incantation…just a quick thrust…" Hips grind against mine and you whisper. "And you can puncture your victim's heart."_

_Your fingernail grazes my breastplate, and you press against the thin skin leaving an indentation on it. Our mouths flesh over._

"Wicked!" Seamus says and Molly's eyes go wide.

"Cormac!" She hisses at him as if I can't hear her. "She's been in prison three bloody years! Let her eat her food at her own pace!"

Cormac's stupid smug face curls into a smirk as he readjusts his sleeve, "An eye tattoo? Who gets an eye tattoo? And what's that bloody triangle mean anyway?" My hand that's holding the knife is shaking, and the hallows under my eye is twitching.

"_Oy! Mudgirl!" The guard barks at me from across the yard. He's sitting at a picnic table with a couple other guards, with you, Draco, and your fat husband. Clutched in the guard's hand is a particularly juicy looking turkey leg. "Sing for your supper!"_

_He lobs the bone at a group of prisoners and it rolls across the dirt. A frazzled guy with equally frazzled blonde hair snatches it off of the ground and he holds it like an infant against his chest. I know him. Can't pronounce his ridiculous name but it won't matter. He sent me to your sister's manor. _

_My eyes catch yours and your lips curl into a knowing smirk, your tongue darting out to lick your lips. Just for me. I stride toward him and he tries to shred the meat off the turkey leg but I get there faster. My arm goes around his neck placing him into a chokehold and a necklace charm falls out the collar of his jumpsuit. It's a symbol I'm all too familiar with._

_A line within a circle within a triangle. The symbol of what landed us here in the first place. Now the symbol of the Overlord. I shove the charm into his left eye._

Arthur clears his throat, "Well then, now that we've got some food in our bellies...we've got things to discuss."

My stomach hurts. Food sitting like a pile of boulders inside it.

Before Arthur can start talking two women enter through the far door and I cant help but drop my spoon. It's you! Well…sort of you. A blonde-you, and brunette-you.

Molly rushes toward you as you've raised your hand to your chest in apparent shock.

"Andy, Cissy she only just got here hours ago...she's been completely mute."

Well now I'm just disappointed.

Blonde-you approaches slowly, her eyes fixated upon your signature on my forearm, "Hermione...whatever our deranged sister has done to you..."

Love me?

Brunette-you goes to the other side of my chair, "Know that we aren't like her. We don't condone her behavior...or of the Overlord for that matter."

"I joined Molly and the resistance to save my family. The Dark Lord has done enough to sully my family's name, enough to tear us apart with bigotry and hatred. Once I was deluded into believing that purity would cure the ills of society. Now all around us squalor is ubiquitous, people are dying, society crumbles. Draco tells me of the horrors of Azkaban daily. And of our sister's tyranny." Narcissa Malfoy. I remember her. Her face always looked like she stepped in a pile of dog shit, but wasn't aware of it.

Now she just looks tired.

The brunette-you starts to sob. "My darling Ted...have you seen him? He was taken to Azkaban shortly after the war ended..." She's trying to take my hands in her own, and I let her…I can't help it…she looks _so_ much like you. "Please Hermione...is Ted alright?"

Ted? Ted who?

Narcissa hugs brunette-you, squeezing the tears from her eyes. "Andromeda…she'll tell you when she is ready to." Narcissa guides Andromeda to a pair of chairs at the far end of the table. It's so strange seeing your sisters here. Especially Narcissa. She fits in here like a banker at a soup kitchen. Arthur pushes his chair out to stand and speak.

"Everyone, I'm glad you could all make it to this meeting tonight. As you can undeniably see, we've been successful in rescuing the last of the trio. Though she has yet to really say anything, know that you are safe here with us, Hermione. The resistance needs hope and you are the embodiment of that hope."

"We brought you here to rouse the people." Narcissa says. "Many didn't believe that the Overlord was actually keeping you alive Hermione."

"And those things you were searching for, with Ron and Harry." Arthur says. "The…horcruxes…you're the only hope we have for unearthing the identity of the final one. If we have any hope to assassinate the Overlord, we must know the identity of it."

The real reason why they brought me to this shithole pub. The big why.

Horcruxes.

I would be so happy if I could live out the rest of my miserable existence without ever having to hear the word uttered again. But if my track record is any indication, I'm never that lucky.

It's like a doctor's telling me, 'It's metastasized.'

"Please Hermione, time is short…can you remember the final Horcrux?" Arthur probes me again.

"The first was the diary, then came the ring, the locket, the diadem, the cup, and…Harry." Narcissa recounts on her fingers.

"So the Overlord willingly destroyed on of his own Horcruxes then?" Neville asks.

Andromeda sighs. "Yes, but the populace likely doesn't understand that…we're lucky that we're even privy to the existence of such objects."

_It is unbearably cold out here tonight. The fire I made a few hours ago is slowly dying and Harry is too caught up in his thoughts to fix it. I rub my hands for warmth over the embers and turn to look at my friend, hunched over on his cot, his head buried in his hands. It has been months…_

_I walk toward him and sit beside him, the only thing I can think to do is rub his back for reassurance. He looks up at me through his ragged hair and smiles at me. _

"_Do...Do you miss Ron?" He asks, catching me off guard. I nod, I do miss him somewhat, though not his brusque behavior when he abandoned us. Harry turns his head to look forward. "I'd give anything to see Ginny again. To hug her, especially to kiss her. I keep feeling that we're fighting a losing battle. Death awaits us at every turn…" _

"_Kisses, touches…I wish." I heave a sigh, my shoulders slump forward. "We're seventeen, instead of discovering ourselves in love and relationships…we're out here. I know I'm here with you Harry…but I've never felt so alone in my life."_

_Quickly he pecks me on the cheek, and instantly I feel my face burn up in a blush. My hand rests on my cheek. "Harry what..."_

"_Sorry 'Mione, couldn't resist. Like you said, it's been a while…" Both of us are looking deep into the others eyes, I'm not sure what's about to happen, and more importantly if this is even right! I dive in and kiss him, he kisses me back. This is so strange. I don't really love him that way.. _

_I just love feeling wanted. I know deep inside this is wrong. But I've heard about people acting in desperation..._

_Gently he lays me down on the bed and everything that follows is a hormonal blur. We're both starved. Not for each other really…just the contact. Carnal instinct taking over. We're both scared of death, but mostly we don't wish to die a virgin either. My fingertips loop into his jeans and the liner of his boxer shorts and I tug them down, revealing the most I've ever seen of the boy-who-lived…_

It's the snake, I finally say between a huge bite of mutton and a soup chaser. Nagini.

* * *

**A/N:** Lyrics from "The Well & Lighthouse" by Arcade Fire.


	7. Chapter 6

_'Cause I'm on fire_

_'Cause I'm on fire when you come_

_'Cause I'm on fire_

_'Cause I'm on fire so stub me out_

_

* * *

_

It's so ironic. I've been given a room and bed upstairs but have been given explicit instructions not to leave.

A prisoner once more. Yet another filler chapter in the novel of my life. Though I hope it concludes with the slitting of Rodolphus Lestrange's throat.

How to end him. How to get you back. It's all that I can think about while having to endure endless conversations of battle plans, and the weepy would-have-beens if the war wasn't lost. A bowl of strawberries is placed upon the table by Molly at one point, and my mouth floods with the phantom taste of you. The moment the succulent fruit touches my tongue, I can't help myself from going damp.

I miss you.

And now? This is just torturous, Arthur and Molly have me sharing a room with both Black sisters, the conclusion to the triumvirate of the Black family psyche.

Andromeda the Ego, Narcissa the Super-ego, and you, of course, the charismatic Id.

I had plans to ease some of my earlier tension once your sisters decide to go to sleep. Unfortunately for me, they insist upon finagling their way into my private time, blah-blah-blahing about frivolous things that really don't matter.

It actually hurts between my legs. Love physically manifesting in my aching, untouched genitals.

Your sisters are both looking at me expectantly. I haven't chimed in once during this tête-à-tête they are trying to drag me into. I had the mute button on.

"Oh it's such a shame our sister marred you so." Andromeda says while scanning the love mark on my arm. As with everyone else, she just doesn't understand or appreciate its aesthetic value. "Not her best work either…"

"Bella was once an artist you know." Narcissa chimes in from behind the book she's been pretending to read this whole time, and I regard her with as much interest as I can feign. In actuality I find the mounted muskets on the wall to be of great intrigue. With one I could shatter Rodolphus skull at pointblank range. Splatter scatter shot. Paint a Jackson Pollock with his brain.

"All three of us." Andromeda adds to the burgeoning family history that I get to be part of tonight. Honestly, they don't seem to understand that I'm a little preoccupied at the moment. I tug the quilt on my bed up a little higher to cover my shoulders. "Bella was the painter and sculptor..."

"Andromeda the singer." Narcissa says with a smile.

"And dear Cissy the poet." Andromeda sighs wistfully. It sounds as if they're reading lines from a play. "Bella's work changed through her descent into madness...to the point where she stopped creating altogether."

I don't know how much of this I can take. I raise my scarred arm up for the two sisters to see, and speaking aloud for the first time, I suggest that Bella was perhaps testing a new medium.

"How dreadful!" Andromeda grasps at her heaving chest. "Bellatrix flirted with macabre subject matter before she became a death eater I remember. I shudder when I think back to that particularly gruesome rendition of Salome she painted in her seventh year."

"I rather enjoyed it. Oh how lifelike, the tension expressed on canvas was nearly palpable." Narcissa remarks and Andromeda doesn't seem too convinced. On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if you were ever planning on staging your own Salome; considering our circumstances I'd audition for the titular role. Roldolphus as a St. John the Baptist. Set in our own theatre of the macabre. His head on my platter.

"But can't you see the signs were all there! Pity father didn't try to intervene whilst she was so broken. Had her disposition been a bit brighter, it would've been reflected in her work!"

"It takes a damaged mind and heart to create something whole because happy minds do not create beautiful art." Narcissa says with her nose turned up in the air. "What she created should not have been considered what you so brusquely call a 'red flag'"

"I disagree, art is a reflection of the artists own psyche, a window to the soul. It is the very concept of beauty that is subjective on behalf of the viewer." Andromeda retorts and I'm feeling quite certain that I'm about to bear witness to a spat of sibling rivalry. I roll onto my side, and tune out their trivial argument with a pillow to the ear.

Pity they didn't ask me my opinion though. I find all art to be quite useless.

Before I ended up in between these two loving siblings, Arthur outlined their plans for tomorrow: a raid on the ministry. Strike at the Overlord, and kill Nagini when we get the chance. The Overlord's defenses are down thanks to Fleur and Neville springing me from Azkaban, and with Draco on the inside...well they figure their chances are good. I couldn't care less.

Hopefully it means I get to see you again...and kill your husband. Prove my love once and for all.

Narcissa and Andromeda are like two squawking parakeets in the same cage, shame there isn't a blanket big enough to shut them up.

They are so caught up in their intellectual nonsense they hardly notice me slip out of the room toward the bathroom down the dimly lit hall. I have to go, my bladder is so full it hurts.

Snores and mouth breathing punctuate the silence of the sleeping quarters of this dilapidated place. In one room I can see Fleur and Bill spooning on their bed, and oddly enough I can clearly see Fleur is pregnant. Didn't notice it before back in Azkaban. And if you did, you didn't really care one way or another. Torture is as torture does, stomach full of fetus or not. One of bills hands rests upon her stretched out belly.

Funny. Her unborn child has already done time in Azkaban.

I continue toward the bathroom and gently push the door open. I've got privacy at my disposal for the first time in three years. I was lucky in Azkaban to have the toilet directly next to my bed, didn't have to creep up on it in the night like I have to do here. Nor do I have a strung out neighbor watching me. I ease the door close and relieve myself.

A quick hand washing and I gaze at my reflection in the mirror. Nothing's changed. I still look like I just came from prison.

There's a knock at the bathroom door.

Who is it?

"It's me. Cormac."

Fabulous, how am I going to deal with this now. One thing I've learned is that the world is your armory. Any object could be a weapon when you mix in enough imagination. There are towels, toothbrushes, a shower curtain, curtain hooks, and the list goes on. But these mundane things don't suit my needs at this moment,…oh but _that_ looks intriguing.

How convenient. A small amber bottle of lye sits on the counter by the mirror. The sink must've recently been clogged and someone forgot the appropriate spell.

I pocket it before reaching to open the door.

_We're both lying naked on your floor, a small candle our peripheral for the evening. You hold your fingertip above the flame for an agonizing amount of time. Moments earlier you told me not to try to stop you. You needed to feel invigorated. Needed to feel the bite of fire on your flesh to ignite a metaphorical fire within you. Burning to feel alive._

_It's all a bunch of bullshit if you ask me, but it's hard to sit by and watch you cook your flesh for pleasure. I want to tug your hand away, but you wont budge. Your lip curls and you're biting down so hard, blood dribbles down your chin. I lap it up with my own tongue, tracing the contours of your chiseled face, leaving behind a snail trail of saliva that glistens in the candlelight. _

_Finally you whip your burnt digit away, and using astute toddler medical savvy, shove it into your mouth. When you finish sucking the pain away you give me a devilish smile._

"_Are you ready pet?" With a flick of your wand you summon a bottle of rubbing alcohol. You pass it to me with a kiss._

_I can only nod and watch you dip a finger into the small bottle and trace the letter "M" on your naked stomach. You shiver from the contact and already I can see it evaporating from your milky skin. You give me a kiss before muttering "Incendio" into my ear. _

_M for Mudblood ignites instantaneously. Your pretty face contorts between the planes of agony and pleasure. And I push my fingers hard inside you. _

"_You set me alight my muddy one…" You say through your teeth, climax imminent. "...though don't be afraid to burn anything in your away."_

Cormac, the smug asshole, leans on the doorframe as if he's posing for an advert.

"Up late are we?" He smiles.

Had to go, I reply and make to move past him, but his arm blocks my path.

"C'mon, you just got sprung, least you can do is talk to me for a minute. I've already forgiven you for damaging my sleeve earlier tonight." His voice is slick like oil, and my fingers creep toward the vial in my pocket. His own fingers reach out to trace my jaw, just how you like to do, but this time it feels dirty. "Remember…back in our slug club days I couldn't take my eyes off you. Thought it was a pity you fancied Weasley, rest his soul and all that. Didn't think you could possibly get more beautiful...and here you go proving me wrong."

I'm cornered in the bathroom tripping over the legs of these jeans that I'm too skinny for. Cormac licks his lips and all that flashes in my mind is you. His eager hands rub my bony shoulders and begin to travel downward. These touches aren't like yours.

"Must've been pretty lonely those three years eh? Bet you've got some...frustrations to vent...I could help...Merlin knows how long I've wanted you…" His stubbled chin starts a descent toward my face, his lips being drawn in like a fish.

My right hand works to uncork the bottle and I throw the white powder directly into his eyes. Immediately I'm shoved away and he claws at his face, wailing in agony. Boiling his corneas under his eyelids. The skin around his eyes is beginning to look like ground beef, and like an idiot he rubs at it with his hands, only spreading the lye to his palms.

"My…my wand! G-g-g-give me my wand cr-crazy bitch! Ahh!"

Simple muggle chemistry has no magical fixer. Another lesson from Azkaban. A

And his blubbering isn't helping him. Idiot. He'll be blind in a matter of minutes, saving myself and females as a whole from his predatory gaze.

Ugh. I haven't been here a full day and already I find myself growing anxious, I want to get out of here. Away from them, and back to you. I know you're out there right now looking for me.

Your mudblood is looking for you too.

I decide to build my arsenal, smashing the bottle of lye and carefully wrapping the largest shard in a scrap of towel. I'd sand it a little if I had time. It'll serve as my own caustic dagger.

Cormac's face continues to melt as I make my way into the hallway and down the stairs. Behind each door I pass people are waking up, most likely due to Cormac's rudeness. I wouldn't expect to sleep through these unwarranted screams either.

I can't stay here a moment longer. These people aren't worth my time and all this serves is to delay my finding you. You're out there right now, I know it, and I'll do what I can to meet you halfway.

As I pass the rooms I can still hear your sisters arguing over nonsense, Neville's mouth breathing, and Molly's snoring. An orchestra of humanity I really don't want to listen to. I don't believe for a second these people have the capacity to topple the Overlord.

Making my way out of this forsaken place I grab one of molly's satchels from a hook on the wall. I'll need something to carry my arsenal. If I am going to kill your husband tonight, I need the right tool at my disposal.

I pocket a few steak knives and a cleaver, stuffing them into a thick oven mitt. A meat tenderizer. Cheesecloth. A bottle of grain alcohol. A box of matches. There's a guitar in the foyer and I snap off the D string, stuffing into my little bag of anarchy. I'll kill Rodolphus Lestrange several times over, just to make doubly sure he is dead.

They aren't going to do anything. The longer they sit holed up in this pub, the longer they delay the inevitable. Death doesn't deal in strategies.

And to rouse the hive, first you've got to smoke them out.

I pour out a little bit of the grain alcohol and stuff the cheesecloth into it's neck, just enough to let the end touch the clear fluid inside. Delicately with one of the burners on the stove, the flames lick and ignite the cheesecloth instantly. I've got maybe thirty seconds. I lob the bottle at the far wall. It strikes the long oak table first before shattering and spilling a deluge of fire onto the floor.

Flames lovingly begin to eat at the walls and I make for the exit. I'm sure they'll follow, the flames will let them know it's time.

Above my head the rafters creak. Everyone must finally be waking up thanks to Mr. McClaggin burning away in the bathroom…and the Dead Dog below them being reduced to a steak.

Before I can leave Arthur stumbles into the kitchen his wide fish eyes reflecting in the orange flames. He starts to scream. "Merlin! We're under attack!" He uses his wand to extinguish the flames. Cheater, surely there's water he could've used. He turns to me, metaphorical fire in his eyes this time. "Hermione, wake everyone! We storm the Ministry tonight!"

Well...shit.

* * *

**A/N:** winkwink, you know who you are.

**A/N 2:** A cookie if you catch the Oscar Wilde quote in there! :D

**A/N 3:** Lyrics at beginning from Banquet by Bloc Party.


	8. Chapter 7

_I'm gonna rescue you._

_So you can rescue me too._

_Make it a rendezvous._

* * *

Spurred to action Arthur's dragging all of the resistance out of their beds. Limbs are being dragged down the stairs faces ragged with lack of sleep. Who are they to sleep when so much falls to shit around them?

One by one I see their previously zombified faces morph into horror at the sight of the now charred kitchen. Personally, I think of it as improvement.

Cissy and Andy scramble down the steps and each of them bring a spread hand to heaving chests. The whites of their eyes reflect back in the dim light as they survey the damage.

"She was here!" Andy cries and Cissy's porcelain face nods violently like a bobble head in an earthquake. "All of this…this entropy!"

"The markings of a Bellatrix tantrum. Reminds me of when she reduced our Manor's wine cellar to a crater upon discovering I didn't have her favorite merlot."

Arthur gapes at your sisters. "Lestrange. In here! Stealth doesn't seem her style!"

On the inside, I'm grinning like an utter idiot. Arthur is right, if you did this, you'd be gloating about your work. You'd shove their faces into it.

"SACRE BLEU!" Comes a scream from above.

That can mean only one thing; Fleur found Cormac. What's left of him at least.

Footsteps are thundering down the stairwell toward Arthur and I, and Fleur appears, her face a disheveled mess. Her pregnant belly quivers under her nightgown. Even the fetus is uncomfortable with all of this.

"Arthur! 'Eet's Cormac! 'Is face 'eez covered 'een 'orrible scars! And 'e 'eez unconscious 'een 'zee bathroom!" Her pretty face contorts as she retches loudly. "And 'zee smell…oh 'ow 'orrible 'zee smell!" Of course she means Cormac's burning flesh. A smell I'm all too familiar with; you've let me cook you with acid.

It's a smell so thick it's palpable. I'm salivating. A hunger is writhing in my gut, and each precious second that dribbles by is time apart from you. It can't be abated. I'll find you. They will lead me to you. You'll satisfy my hunger.

"The Death Eaters must've attacked him!" Arthur says and I nod. "He must've startled them!"

I couldn't stop them, I say, and neither could Cormac.

"Whas happened?" Now a bleary Neville has joined us, his ridiculous mouth hanging open at the hinges.

"We're storming the ministry. Tonight. Rouse everyone in the resistance Neville! Send owls!" Neville nods and rushes upstairs. I want to tell him to add your name to the addressees.

Arthur's hands cup each of my shoulders and he commands my attention. "Hermione, are you alright? Who was here? Was it Lestrange? What did they want?" He vomits his parental concern all over me, and I stay mute. There's nothing I can say. "Did they…did they hurt you?"

I think of Cormac and nod. Arthur's face contorts into a scowl. "The bastards. The miserable bloody good for nothing bastards! Haven't they put you through enough? Look Hermione, you've been through so much, why don't you stay here, be safe? Perhaps with Andy and Cissy."

That wouldn't work. How could I find you from this dingy pub? I shake my head; I say I'd like to avenge the one I love. Arthur smiles broadly at this.

"Ahh Ron…rest his soul. We fight for Ron! For Harry!"

For Bellatrix Lestrange.

* * *

We arrive at the ministry building minutes later, and the place is swathed in darkness.

Fitting ambiance for a final act of desperation against the Overlord.

We wade through a sea of trash and debris to approach the building, and I find myself disappointed that despite the misery that surrounds them, the people of London should still have the decency to pick up after themselves. Even the freaks down in the psych ward of Azkaban are courteous.

Many people I don't recognize have joined up outside of the doors to the Ministry, all standing with wands at the ready. I am feeling a strange déjà vu.

The melee, the fracas, it begins right away; as Arthur decides to forgo the art of subtlety and barrels through the front doors, make-shift militia in tow.

Death Eaters abound and multi-hued lightning bolts of death are beginning to streak across the grand entryway to the ministry.

How cruelly ironic; that it should all look so…beautiful.

There isn't much I can do to fight back from this vantage, seeing as the resistance conveniently forgot to arm me with a wand. But that's all right. Magic makes us weak, and I've got a satchel of anarchy; a far better weapon. I take a steak knife in each hand.

I submerge myself into the darkness along the walls and begin to make my way toward the floo.

You're not here. You wouldn't stoop this low to simply hold the line.

Poorly aimed hexes whiz by my face cracking the wall, and one of the Death Eaters has stumbled in front of me. I can't quite see who it is, but they're not moving from that spot, choosing to anchor down and return fire from the wall. I creep closer and instantly they recognize me.

"It's the mudblood—HRCK!" Pity he won't be able to finish with a knife jammed into his voice box. I press on easing my way through the fights.

They recognize me. Every one of them; friend and foe. Like a celebrity in a crowd, but none of the Death Eaters decide to take a chance on me, after they watch as I bludgeon a man's skull with a meat tenderizer from Molly's kitchen. The handle is so slick with blood it slips from my hand, falling to the floor.

Everyone is so caught up in the good vs. evil ambience of the evening I am pushing through this fight with ease. More and more plainclothes members of the resistance are pouring in through the floo and the doors.

Right about now would be the perfect time to…CRACK!

Materializing in the center of the enormous entry foyer stands the Overlord himself, sparing nothing in making a Hollywood entrance. His disgusting translucent face, a road map of capillaries and veins beneath disease like skin, warps into a pseudo scowl. Immediately he immerses himself in the fight, killing people within immediate proximity, regardless of alignment.

CRACK! CRACK! Two more figures materialize behind the Overlord, one of which is extremely fat and the other much smaller, and suddenly my eyes are locking on you. You're wearing a beautifully crooked mouth with edges turned skyward in a smile filled with childlike glee. Enthralled by all that's occurring around you.

Death and violence invigorate you to the point of arousal. I brandish the meat cleaver and press through the throngs of fighters, cutting through a jungle of limbs.

It is astonishing that I have not been struck by a curse. Marksmanship wasn't on the list of academic priorities at Hogwarts apparently.

You laughter haunts the air, you're here. I can feel you, you permeating into my skin. Omnipresent.

I press on through the pulsating melee spilling out all around the ministry floor. Curses and hexes are flying in every direction, like a confused mass of birds that had suddenly been blinded. One curse grazes the exposed skin of my forearm, torching it like meat on a frying pan, and the wound sizzles. It causes me to stumble a moment but not before sending a knife flying toward the source of the curse, striking an unsuspecting Yaxley directly in his temple. A kill.

It's hilarious the way he flops back plank like onto the floor, his wand rolling across the floor suddenly free of his dead fingers.

Your melodious cackling fills my ears as I draw closer toward you. You don't see me just yet; you're busy cutting people down, firing crucio after crucio with the flourish of a muggle lawn sprinkler. Strands and curls run wild on top of your frazzled head as you send a large stone barreling into Seamus Finnegan, crunching his ribcage like a bundle of twigs.

"FOR GINNY! AVADA KEDAVRA" The killing curse is rocketing toward you and you match it with your own crimson beam, pressing it back toward Molly.

Not my Bellatrix you bitch! My legs scramble forward of their own accord and at full speed and with an arm outstretched, I clothesline Molly in the neck.

"MUDDY PUPPY!" You squeal in delight and start to dash toward me, but Rodolphus eclipses you with his girth, his meaty hands resting disapprovingly on his hips.

Out of the way I shout at him.

"You bloody slut." He warbles through his hotdog lips. "This is all your fault. Just how long have you been amassing this blasted militia from your ruddy jail cell huh?" His wand is outstretched and aimed at my head; I can't help but go cross-eyed looking down at his bloated fist gripping its hilt, looking like a pudgy infant swallowing the wand whole. "I'll be damned if you think you're going to succeed in killing the Overlord tonight blighted little bitch."

Behind him I see your face contort with rage, and slowly you raise your own wand at the back of his head.

"BELLA!"

Cissy and Andy are weaving through the battle and your concentration is broken at the sound of their shrill voices repeating your name in rhythm. My hand is snaking into the satchel, searching for the perfect weapon. Rodolphus' organs are sheathed in a veritable shell of fat, and unfortunately the knives at my disposal are grossly undersized to take on such a slaughter.

Wait. I feel something by my ankles. It's cold, and somewhat…slippery…and it's moving!

Nagini, the phallic creature, is starting to constrict my legs. She rises to full height between myself and Rodolphus, and her beady eyes regard me with a stoic vitriol. Nagini is rearing back, ready to strike.

I lunge at Rodolphus and the snake at the same time, lashing out with the meat cleaver, embedding it deeply into his gut. Yellow adipose spills out from the wound like a pustule that's just been lanced. A fitting metaphor. The resulting scream is like music. This is art.

Sadly though, it is not a kill, and you're voicing your disdain. But you are unable to do anything at the moment. Your sisters are trying, and failing, to subdue you.

"Petrificus totalus!" You sing to your siblings, and daintily you step over their bodies. We lock stares.

You're boring into me. Our cosmology is nearly completed. No longer am I driven for a want of belonging; it's pure carnality. Passion has turned to ravenous hunger, and Rodolphus stands between me and the meal. You are almost mine.

You once read to me from "The Story of the Eye", a grossly erotic muggle philosopher's tale to which you ascribe. A tale you say that's all our own; blasphemous, disgusting, and profane...and yet so enthralling. We both are driven by desires we cannot hope to ever comprehend; both desecrating what little tenets we once held sacred. Debauchery in its purest form is a collision of desires, sexuality and death.

And eggs.

And, of course, an eye.

I feel a shiver roll down my spine when I think of the night we had spent after the Overlord gifted you with Alastor Moody's glass eye. Were the thing alive, I doubt it would've been able to unsee where it was placed.

_The glass eye, slick and wet, tumbles across your bedroom floor. Luckily you manage to capture it before it gets too far away. You place it on my torso, rolling it up and down my ribs with your fingertips. I am still trying to catch my breath._

"_The prude has no eye for art. They cannot understand…that there is beauty…in the obscene." You hiss in my ear, tongue darting out to trace the lobe. I look down at the eye held in your palm and balk at how, just moments ago, we've just turned such a mundane thing into something so…horrible._

You join me in watching your soon-to-be-ex-husband's pitiful struggles; your wanton hands caressing me. You kiss my neck, and suckle on my jugular.

Every breath Rodolphus fails to take is a joke with an unending punchline. He doubles (quadruples) over, hands grasping at his chest, the wound becoming puckered and wrinkled. Nagini still writhes in my grasp and I drag the great snake toward Rodolphus, the beached whale. You've sauntered over, wrapping an arm about my waist and you place a kiss on my death-camp cheeks before smothering my mouth without your wanton lips. Rodolphus' stupid face gapes back at you.

"Bella…you? The mudblood?"

The panicked snake constricts around Rodolphus neck, and his face is now turning red, eyes bulging. I pull the snake even tighter, blocking your husband's jugular and arteries. His face is cherry tomato red. Your name slips from his bulging lips as a croaking sound, and you can only laugh against my mouth. The tip of your tongue grazes my pallet. In my fist the brittle bones of the snake's skull are snapping, reducing its brain to putty. Nagini no longer struggles in my grip.

A final breath comes in a gurgle, and the corpulent corpse, freshly dead, rolls forward. A gelatinous blob of flesh and organs complete with a reptilian necktie, also dead.

"You realize what you've just done muddy one…" You coo, and I can't help but smile.

I'm taking back what's mine I say.

Off in the distance, across the battlefield, someone has just discovered that their life insurance has come to an end.

* * *

A/N: Lyrics from "The Rescue Song" by Mr. Little Jeans.

A/N 1: Delay much? Yes, it's racing season. Got some huge races coming up, and the nice weather does a number on my creativity.

A/N 2: "The Story of the Eye" is written by Georges Bataille and is NOT for the faint of heart.


	9. Chapter 8

_Be careful how you touch me, my body is an earthquake._

_Ready to receive you, my mind's making glaciers._

_Metals for my soldiers, let's be like strangers._

_…touching for the first time._

* * *

The floorboards are smoldering, the hole goes clear through the floor through to the cellars. Thank Whomever for magic, since muggle contractors would likely balk at the crater that currently resides in our bedroom. There are scars in the walls too.

Chains clink across silken sheets as you suddenly stir from your slumber. Or should I say, concussion. Hours before, we tried to engage in a philosophical conversation while your mouth explored every inch and orifice of my body. You look up at me through a mess of curls, fallen loose from the bun that previously held them together. I gather your body into my arms, careful to not strain your shackled arms, and kiss you gently on the lips. Mornings are reserved for tenderness. You give me a glowing smile.

Another successful night, serving our sentence. Together.

We're both prisoners now. And our crime? Murder. Dismemberment. Debauchery. But our prison is your old home. The same place you shared with Rodolphus.

The battle had ended with the death of the Overlord, by our hands. I recall it as though it were yesterday.

The Overlord brazenly approached us as the his great snake had fallen flaccid. You gently grabbed hair at the back of my head and angled my back against your front, the tip of your wand pressed into my neck. In his blinding anger the Overlord advanced demanding to know how I had escaped, how I had rallied this army, how I killed Rodolphus and how I killed Nagini.

He drew close enough to kiss me. Nonsense anecdotes of villainy are spilling from him but I can't understand any of it since his breath like sulfur and vomit is burning it's way into my lungs.

And he doesn't stop talking: blah, blah, blah, destiny, evil, Harry, death, yadda, yadda, yadda. I try not to flinch as I feel you slip something cold and hard into my hand. Instinctively my fingers wrap around it; it's your knife. The knife you branded me with, the knife that ended Dobby, little house elf lost.

The Overlord goads you to end me, and I can feel your free hand caressing mine that wields the knife, giving a gentle pressure around my fist.

_Never jams…no misfires…no incantation…just a quick thrust…_

Like cutting into a fresh steak, I puncture the Overlord's heart. Within milliseconds his heart will leak out into his chest cavity, the coronary pressure falling and failing to fill his ventricals. No doubt I've sawed through coronary arteries. He has but mere minutes left on earth before he will drown on the inside. For a moment I contemplate cutting his throat.

No spell, no incantation can travel to his lips while his brain and muscles scramble to find blood to stay alive.

The mighty Overlord rendered dumb as Rodolphus, words frothing from his throat as grunts.

Foolish fool.

Fish eyed and in shock the Overlord stumbles back gaping at your ever-emergent mirth bombarding him with an echoing crescendo. I can't help but laugh either as you cradle me against your chest, and with your free arm, send the bleeding man sprawling, his wand dislodged from his death (dying) grip.

The jalopy sputter of the first syllable of your name as it fails to pass his lips is also quite funny. And I can't help but feel a swell of pride; I've done what Harry and Dumbledore failed to do. I've authored my own epic, and now the triumphant heroine has felled the great beast and soon the princess shall be hers. _Bella…_

All around us it has gone quiet, the audience quiet in hushed anticipation of the villains final soliloquy. It comes as a single hushed word as the Overlord's heart fails.

"_Shit"_

Around us is nothing but silence, mouths hanging open by their hinges in utter shock. And one by one the extant Death Eaters begin to surrender, the joy of the resistance members slowly rising. Through the sea of people I can see Arthur wading through toward us. You slide to the floor clutching at my blood-slicked leg, and begin to whimper at his approach.

His wand is trained at your head. "Unhand Hermione, Lestrange. It's over. Try to resist and you're dead." You say nothing, but shoot me an expectant glance like a frightened child.

_Adorable._

My fingers embed themselves in your curls and I violently whip your head back. Stay away from her I say and Arthur blanches.

"What? Why? She is a _murderer._ She deserves the full punishment of the law!"

No one touches her, I say.

"But Hermione, the Overlord is dead. You're free. Send Lestrange to Azkaban to rot!"

I look down upon you before meeting Arthur's gaze once more. Forget about Azkaban, I'll tear her apart. I say.

I will tear your body apart, I tell them. Rip you in half.

I regard you with detachment; you don't know that your sniveling falls on deaf ears. It's not easy, seeing you like this.

We'll continue to forge our own cosmology. It pangs me, this emotion sickness; the touch of your clammy fingers gripping my ankle vice-like.

Bellatrix Lestrange, is mine.

At that moment, the resistance is fully prepared to applaud me…until a putty faced Cormac enters through the main doors. Had he the facial muscles to frown, I'm sure he would've been scowling at the time.

And so here we are, in our own little depraved universe, scarcely contained within the walls of your husband's former home. Under the watch of Dementors once more.

At night when you hold me, your hands running marathons beneath my clothes, I realize that I've never been so _in love_. The tenderness of your postcoital whimpers, it's enough to melt my heart.

Endless days of sex and violence and they consider our imprisonment a punishment?

I think for a moment on my former self; an impressionable young know-it-all with buckteeth and frizzy hair boarding a scarlet steam engine. A girl whom aimed to please everyone while out-doing everyone at the same time. Stuffy. Insufferable. Mudblood. Could she see me now, tattooed and scarred, stronger than ever, entangled in the arms and legs of a madwoman at least 20 years my senior…

I can only imagine she'd think to herself, oh, it's such a shame.

But that's the way things go. People change as they grow.

You call to me from our bed and I'm shaken from my reverie. Your lustful tongue rolls around in your open mouth.

"Did I ever tell you…that I love you…_Hermione._"

**FINIS**

* * *

A/N: Lyrics from "Faberge falls for Shuggie" by of Montreal.

:D


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